Oh Johnny Boy
by Lunedd
Summary: Is John a bad father? He is driven, yes, but bad? R&R, I suck at summaries. Hurt!Dean, Protective!Sam, Worried!John.
1. Chapter 1

This one you owe to masondixon; her thoughts triggered something in my brains, and after taking counsil with my pillow I wrote the following story down. To set something straight: I never thought or think that John didn't love his two boys. Perhaps he sometimes chose the wrong way to show them, but I'm sure his intentions were noble.

So – here you go! Hope you like it, and please review! Feeback is always welcome.

Oh – of course this one's for irshyva, too. My constant main muse. :-)

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Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying

'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow

'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow

Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying

And I am dead, as dead I well may be

You'll come and find the place where I am lying

And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me

And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be

If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me

John Winchester was not a man of many words. His sharp features wore the expression of a calm yet determined man you better not picked an argument with. Dark eyes burned in a sun tanned face with an intensity that made weaker minds shiver and withdraw. His hair was of a dark brown, almost black, spotted with an occasional grey strand; John was a little past 40, warily eyeing the big '5'. His broad, sturdy chest was muscled, but not too heavy; it came from daily excerises outdoor and hard working, not from attending a fitness studio. Which never occurred to John, since he had been working physically since he was a teenager, and joined the Marines later, always taking the good physical shape as a nice side-effect. His moves were spare, efficient, always completely thought of before executed, as if he could not risk losing energy. His body was stout, with legs like barrels and strong, brawny arms. He had the Eagle, Globe & Anchor tattoo with the slogan "Semper fidelis!" beneath it on his right upper arm, and he wore it with pride, albeit it almost had cost him his arm, when it got infected after stitching in that shabby, filthy studio his comrades had dragged him into almost 20 years ago. There was something hidden in his eyes that made people nervous, a certain obsession one could not put the finger on, indicating that the man had seen much more than any person could and should bear. His mood was often sullen, and he could sit and stare into nowhere for hours, just to burst into action and alertness within a second. Hidden under his olive shirt his chest was criss-crossed with scars, old ones, new ones, some thin and almost completely faded, some still thick and red. But only the fewest of all came from his time in the Corps, which he had retired from after his first son was born by his beautiful wife.

John Winchester had not been like this all his life. He had laughed, joked, and his eyes had reflected the humming, buzzing life he so willingly embraced, knowing just how blessed he was with his beautiful wife, his cute little son and his own house – and being so proud of it all. He cried of joy when he held his second, newborn son in the arm, cradling the infant carefully, like precious chinaware in his hands.

And then came the night that ripped everything away from his hands, leaving him helpless, useless. His two young sons he could save, squeezing the baby into his brother's arms and yelling harshly at him as he had never done before: "Get your brother out here, Dean, as fast as you can. Now, Dean, _go_!" Not even reassuring himself that the four year old boy fled from the fire that leaked out of Baby Sammy's room, he threw himself back into the flaming, smoking, choking room, where he had seen something that still tore him out of sleep every night even now, almost twelve years later, leaving him disoriented, sweated and oh so weak in a stranger's bed.

His wife, his beautiful, beautiful Mary, his true love until the end was pinned against the ceiling, a bloody gash across her abdomen where her precious life-fluid still drippled into the crib where Baby Sammy had slept. Her face was distorted by pain and she opened her mouth, voice gone but John knew she was screaming for help. But it were the flames that burst out her, engulfing her, leaking towards the furniture that really scared him, and his logical former Marine mind told him in a cold voice that she would never survive third degree burnings all over her beautiful, lithe and lissom body.

He still didn't know how he had escaped the fire that hungrily consumed all of his house and his old life in no time. All he could remember after breaking away from the frantic plea in his wife's eyes was that he was sitting on his car, cradling the baby in his arms and feeling the small, shaking body of Dean next to him, desperatly trying to cling to sanity for the boys' sake.

After a few days of dispair and suicide thoughts he went to Missouri and learned the truth. Out there in the dark, there were monsters. Not the human kind, but the _supernatural_. Werewolves. Vampires. Witches. Ghosts. Demons. And John learned how to fight them, to hunt them down, moving from town to town all across the nation, always taking his sons with him, unwilling to leave Mary's legacy behind. His Marine-trained instincts came back, and, as he got used to hunt in the dark, he got used to live in the dark. Rarely he laughed, and rarely he joked. Never relax, always on the go.

***

It was early in the morning that John returned from the hunt. The sun wasn't even thinking yet of crawling out of the shadows when the man silently opened the door to the plain apartment he had taken. He dropped his duffle bag next to the couch and was about to sink down into the cushions when a shy voice from the adjoining room startled him.

"D-Daddy?"

He straightened and went to his boys' bedroom where Sammy, his twelve year old kid, was sitting upright on his bed, small fists clutching the sheets. "Hey, dude, what is it? Can't you sleep?"

"It's not me, Daddy – it's Dean! I think he's in pain, but doesn't tell me where it hurts." Sammy's hazel eyes were big and dark in the dim room. John hit the button next to the door and the room was bathed in light, shadows chased away.

With a smooth move John slid on the bed next to Sammy's where Dean was sleeping. Or pretending to be. John gently placed a big hand on his son's shoulder, turning him carefully to the back.

Dean's face was pale and sweaty, but his eyes were clear as he looked up at his father. He had wrapped both arms around his stomach and shivered slightly.

"Dean, where does it hurt?" John's voice was soft, calm, to soothe the tension in the kid's body. He touched the teenager's forehead and frowned. He felt hot, like he had a fever. But he had been okay when John had left in the afternoon.

"Guts." Dean pressed his lips together. "Probably ate something wrong tonight."

"Hm." John wasn't satisfied. "All right. I'll fetch you a relaxant. And if it isn't better tomorrow, we'll tend to it." He stood up, went to the kitchen and returned only a minute later. Dean sat up and took the drops, muttering something about burgers and his belly. John grimaced a half-smile and patted Dean's cheek, which the boy acknowledged with a jerk of his head. _My little boy isn't so small anymore_, John smiled inwardly and somewhat proud and then ran a hand through Sammy's tousled hair. "Now get back to sleep, you two. Sweet dreams!"


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter is dedicated to Robert Müller. He died of a glioblastoma, a fast growing aggressive brain tumor. He was a goalkeeper of Germany's national ice hockey team, and he was granted only 28 short years... The cancer was diagnosted in 2006 and was immediately surgically removed, and only half a year later he was back on the ice. But then, in 2008, the cancer came back... He fought so hard, again, for his wife, his two kids, his team, but it was in vain. His last club, the Kölner Haie, will never allot his number, #80, again, out of respect for this great sportsman.

Robert died on May, 21. We will miss you! Always! Fresh ice and good games wherever you are now! We'll so miss you... :-(

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"Hey, Dean, how do you feel?" John stood at the door frame and watched his eldest son carefully. Dean stretched himself, wincing when his joints popped from the movement. He yawned abundant. "Uhm, hmmm… I'm fine." With a dumb look on his face he stared at his stomach. "Like I said, just wrong food." He smiled radiantly at his father.

John wasn't convinced yet. "You sure? Get out of bed and stretch." He observed as the boy did so. "Okay. No pain? Fine. Now bend down and touch your toes." An easy excersise for the flexible sinews of the teenager. John couldn't help but notice surprised just how much muscle his boy had gained over the last few months since he had enforced the fitness training. Dean was a month shy of his sixteenth birthday, and even if John didn't even give a hint to that, he planned on taking Dean with him on a big hunt. The first hunt the younger one was intended to take the lead on. He hadn't chosen yet which monster they would bring down, but John had gotten some hints from his old friend Bobby Singer that there was a werewolf being up to mischief somewhere around Pontiac, Illinois.

"Good. Now stand upright and bring your knees up to your chest." When Dean still didn't show a sign of pain or discomfort, John was calmed. He rose an eyebrow at Dean. "Now go and get dressed. You two are up for a little training."

"But," Dean's face was an expression of extreme disappointment. "No breakfast?!"

John shook his head and couldn't hide a grin. If nothing else, then it was this sentence that reassured him that his boy was back to normal. "Nope. Nothing to eat for you until dinner. Don't want to upset your stomach again, right?" He heard Sammy giggle as he left the room and started stowing food and water into the backpacks.

Twenty minutes later they hit the road, driving to the woods next to the little town they currently lived in. Another five minutes later they ran through the undergrowth at a brisk pace. Sammy had the lead, since he was the youngest and slowest, followed by Dean that kept chatting as usual, quipping his brother about being such a turtle and that he would be already back at the car if he could set the pace. John came last, grinning from time to time.

The sun was high in the sky, barely glimpsing through the thick growth of foliage, shadowing the ground. Their jog had slowed down to a fast walk, sweat glistening on their faces, leaving dark traces under their armpits and the back of their shirts. The birds whistled warnings to all the animals on the ground about the intruders.

It was now that John realized that something had changed. He couldn't quite explain, but there was a certain tension in the air that made him stiffen and lose his casual trod. Dean, walking in front of him, came to an abrupt halt, bowed his head to one side and listened sharply, holding back his breath, one arm lifted. "You hear?" he whispered to his father.

"The birds fell silent." John leaped forward and grabbed Sammy by the shoulder, stopping him. The boy froze and looked eagerly at his father and brother.

John produced his gun and motioned the boys to hide in the shrubs. Dean shook his head fervently and followed John as the older man crouched and moved on, ever so slowly. "Stay back!" John ordered, seeing the knife in Dean's hand. "Watch out for Sammy." He certainly wouldn't endanger his son, only armed with the bowie knife he gave him last birthday. Dean clenched his teeth and obeyed, reluctantly.

The wild hog attacked without warning. One second, John was standing on his feet, the next moment he knew he must have been flying through the air since he crashed hard onto his back, winded. Stars and spots danced across his vision, and he had to suck several breaths in before actually getting fresh air back into his lungs. His chest crackled, and with a lifetime of experience he knew he had some broken ribs. Nothing he couldn't handle, though. He saw Dean lying next to him in the shrubs, head cradled in his arms to protect it from blows.

A deafening _Boom!_ shattered the silence, and the hog that was about to attack again stopped in midstep. Slowly, slowly it's frontlegs gave way, and it broke down with a loud _thud!_, eyes going blind, blood trickling out of the small wound right between it's eyes. John twisted his neck and stared at Sammy who stood behind him, legs spread for a strong foothold, arms stretched, hands folded around the smoking gun John had dropped when the beast attacked him. "Great shot, Sammy." John scrambled to his feet and grimaced at the pain in his chest. He carefully picked the gun out of the boy's hands and patted his pale cheek. "It- it was coming for you again, and I…" Sammy swallowed hard and put on a brave face.

"It's okay, boy. You did the right thing. And you really did a great shot." John smiled encouraging and pulled a bottle with water out of his backpack. "Take a sip." Sammy obeyed, and colour returned to his pale cheeks. He passed the bottle to Dean without looking at his older brother. Dean grabbed it, threw his head back and emptied it in three long gulps.

John reached out a hand to Dean and was about to pull him to his feet, when Dean suddenly let go of it, falling back into the dirt. "Dean…?" The boy embraced his stomach, small moans coming from his distorted face. John kneeled beside him and could barely roll him onto his side as Dean started to retch and vomited the water he had drunk only a moment ago.

"Dad? What's wrong with him?" Sammy's voice was high, cracking. John waved a hand at the boy to stay silent and wait. He couldn't remember Dean being hit by the boar, since it had come after him. "Let me see, Dean." Carefully he pried the boy's hands open and shoved the shirt up, to see if he was bleeding.

No blood. John frowned, suddenly thinking of last night. "Dean, since when did you have this pain?"

Dean moaned and his eyes darted from left to right as he was thinking. "'Bout two days now. Wasn't that bad – and it was gone this morning!" He winced as drops of sweat stung in his eyes.

"Hm." John gently put his hands on Dean's stomach and started babbling nonsense words in a calm, soothing voice, exactly knowing to what Dean responded to. He pressed his palms against Dean's upper abdomen, beginning on the left side and slowly moving towards the middle and right side. Dean moaned all the way, and when he reached his right flank, the teenager cried out loud and frantically tried to push his father's hands away. "Okay, Dean, I'm sorry. It's okay, right" John started babbling again, taking his hands off the boy's body. Dean curled into a ball, pressing his face into the leaves, not wanting to show his tears.

Love washed warmly through John's body as he saw how brave his boy fought against the pain, as always trying to keep it away from his brother. "Sammy, go get our gear", he ordered, knowing his next move would cause Dean too much pain to hide. "Okay, Dean, this will hurt." He murmured more to steal himself than the boy. "We have to get you to a hospital as fast as possible. I think you have a ruptured appendix. Should have seen it yesterday, where it probably just was an appendicitis."

John smiled at Dean and hardened his heart against what was about to come. He shoved one hand under the boy's neck and the other under his knees, staggering to his feet with his son's weight in his arms, as careful as he could. Dean yelped and his head pressed hard against John's chest as he tried to muffle his screams when the movement made his stomach explode in pain. His left hand grabbed his father's shirt and cramped around it, desperately fighting for control over the pain.

"Shsh, Dean, it's okay, you'll be fine." John babbled as he walked as fast as he dared with the precious burden in his arms. Dread crept up his spine as he thought about what could happen if they didn't make it to a hospital in time. _Can't risk losing someone again. Especially not him._ _He's so much like Mary._ John had always had the feeling that Dean was the bond to his past. Sure, Sammy had been there already when Mary died. But it was Dean that had his mother's eyes, her handsome features without looking feminine. He was the one that remembered how she had been, how her voice had sounded when she sang to him, how life was before the demon tore it away so brutally from their hands. _I will not let you die. Not ever! _

After what seemed an eternity to him they finally reached the Impala, and John settled Dean carefully down onto the backseat. He barely waited for Sammy to close the passenger door and stepped on the gas, sending the car on a fishtailing course out of the woods.


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, dudes, here we go again... as always - I owe nothing, it's all Kripke's (sorry to say that, but glad he lets us play with it, too!)

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"Boy, fifteen, suspicion of ruptured appendix", one of the two nurses called at the doctor as they wheeled Dean into the surgergy. John clung to his hand, trying to pat away the frantic look in his boy's green eyes.

"Sir, is your son a diabetic? Does he have any chronical diseases? Allergies? Is he a hemophiliac?" John shook his head to all the questions, suddenly wondering what he would have done if one of his boys would have had anything of the mentioned. Would he have dropped that boy then somewhere, leaving him behind? He shuddered and the pain in his chest was abruptly overwhelming. He bend forward, desperate to not let Dean's hand go, and coughed.

"Sir, are you hurt? Sir? You have to let go now, please. You are not allowed to enter the surgery." One of the nurses took his hand from Dean's, earning a panicked moaning from the boy. "I'll be waiting for you, Dean, you hear me? Everything's gonna be allright, I promise!" He craned his neck when the nurse got between him and the cot of his son, hearing the other nurse's voice fading as they entered the sterile area: "So, your name's Dean? That's pretty…"

The nurse's probing hands on his chest brought him back. "Ouch!" He winced and shot an annoying glare at the nurse who was a whole head smaller than him. She returned it with professional, determined neutrality. "Sir, please sit down here." She dragged him onto a bed in a niche and pulled the curtain close. "Take your shirt off, please." John obeyed and felt exposed when the nurse once more put her cool, soft hands on his bare skin. "Hmm, three ribs broken, I'd say. I give you a ticket for the X-ray-department for further treatment."

John put his shirt back on and shook his head. "No, Ma'am, that's really not necessary. If you just could bandage me up, that'll suffice. Thank you," he stifled her retort before she could even open her mouth. "I want to be there when they bring Dean back. Please. And – there is also Sammy…"

The nurse cocked her head, pushed the man's shirt up again and started bandaging his chest tightly. "The little boy that came with you two? And, by the way, what happened?"

"We were just on a hunting trip when the hog attacked us. It hit me, but Sammy saved us." John wasn't willing to give more information.

"Okay, we're finished. Now go look after your boys. Ah, before I forget – shall we call their mom?"

John clenched his teeth against the old, returning pain. "Their mom's dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry." He had heard these words over and over again, and they still seemed so shallow, so empty to him. John suppressed the anger that rose in him and just nodded curtly, leaving the stunned nurse alone.

***

It appeared to John as if he had sat on the uncomfortable, barely padded wooden chair forever, sipping awfully thin and tasteless coffee, testing every brand the drinks dispenser offered. He sighed and looked at his watch. Early evening. They'd been sitting here for hours now, and still no sign of Dean. John had given up pacing the floor up and down about an hour ago, tired and exhausted from all the stress. Sammy had watched him attentive, his whole body tense and ready to dart forward once they wheeled his brother out. But finally John sat down, and laid an arm around Sammy's slender shoulders, pulling him protectively against his side. Not long after that he felt the boy's body go limp and he bedded the kid's head in his lap, covering him with his jacket. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. _Just a second, it's only for a second…_

The noise of doors pushed open and the faint squeak of rubber wheels on linoleum alarmed him, making him wonder how long he had slept. A quick glance at his watch told him that it had not been the quarter of an hour. "Dean?" He carefully put Sammy's head onto his chair and slipped out from underneath the sleeping boy. As he came around the edge he saw a nurse pushing the wheeled hospital bed into a room five or six doors down the floor. John darted back to Sammy, shook him hastily awake and pulled the in an instant fully awake boy with him.

Dean was fast asleep in the bed, his long lashes standing dark against the pallor of his calm face. His freckles seemed almost black against his skin, and he looked so young, so vulnerable… John swallowed hard.

"He will be sleeping for about another hour. If you want to stay, you're welcome to do so." The doctor turned to John and fixed him with a stern look over the rim of her glasses. "It was a ruptured appendix. A few minutes later and the boy would be dead now. Why didn't you bring him in when he showed the first signs?"

John raised an eyebrow. "He didn't say a word. He's a tough kid, probably he thought it would go away on it's own." He knew his words sounded lame, but he didn't really care. All he wanted was that woman out of the room and being able to conccentrate on his sick son.

"And there is also another thing I want to talk with you about." She paused, looking meaningful at John and then at Sam. He firmly set his jaw and returned the glare. "There is nothing you can't say in front of my son. Go ahead." He knew this look, especially from women who pretended to _care_, who felt _responsible for everyone_. He swallowed the rage that started to boil in his chest.

"All right. This is your choice." She stopped again, obviously searching the right words. "When we examined Dean's body for further, probably hidden, injuries, we noticed a lot of old and some new scars. Some were even stitched, but I have serious doubts that was the work of a doctor. After that we radiographed him, too, and discovered many old fractures. Each and every rib. Shinbones. Arms. One wrist even two or rather three times. And now I'm really looking forward for your explanation." She leaned back against Dean's bed, positioning herself between him and his – in her eyes – clearly violent father. She shot a glance at the perhaps eleven or twelve year old boy that pressed against his father's side, wondering how the little guy's body looked like. She couldn't imagine his father had spared him, not after what this pig had done to his eldest.

John sighed, running a hand down his face to soothe himself. "He was in the car that burned his mother to death about ten years ago when she had the accident." He _so_ hated to lie, _so_ hated to deny his beautiful Mary the truth, _so _hated to banalize her death. But he had learned over the last years that people tended to shut up when confronted with a shocking answer. Telling the truth, the _real_ truth to ordinary people only would leave him locked up in an asylum and the boys under child protective services.. So a car accident, with lots of splintering glass and a rollover worked just fine with the boys' various injuries they had received when he was not fast or strong enough to protect them.

It worked now, too. John could see her tough and smart façade crumble. Somehow that satisfied him in a pervert way, feeling he had payed her back what she had done to him by accusing him. "Oh," she said sheepishly, feeling like a complete idiot. "I didn't know, I-"

John waved a hand. "S'okay."

"But how can you explain the newer injuries?"

Well, that one was a tough lady, John had to admit. "He likes to play stuntman. Boys, you know? Can we be alone now, please?" She nodded hastily and retreated, almost tripping over her own feet. John closed the door behind her and leaned against the cool steel. He smiled encouragingly to Sammy. The boy hesitated no longer and carefully climbed onto the bed, snuggling close to his brother's still form, taking care not to jostle against the catheter taped on his brother's right hand.

He was so proud of his boys, wishing Mary was here, seeing how they slept in unison, the smaller, darker haired head pressed against the arch of the older, blond haired's neck. _Oh, Mary…_ His legs threatened to give way under John, and he crashed onto the chair next to the bed. _I would give my right hand to protect them from getting hurt over and over again. And yet… I don't want to leave them with some strangers, who know nothing about you, Mary, who can't make them proud of being your sons. _He sighed, took Dean's left hand and cradled it in his. He so wished he could leave the boy in hospital long enough for the doctors to dismiss him, but he knew that even when the doctor had seemed satisfied with his answer, she would do some research. And that meant he had to take Dean out only a short time after he woke up. Officially, or, what he rather assumed, inofficially.

A smile crept up his throat, and John couldn't stifle it. Last time Dean had been in hospital was about a year ago, after he had had that spectacular accident with a stolen motorbike. The boy had wanted to prove his dad that there was no vehicle he couldn't master. And, well, there had been this guy in school – several years older than Dean, owning that shiny, gleaming motorbike. He had provoked Dean the day he had set a foot into that school, teasing him about his worn clothes, his geek little brother. Dean didn't really care about being insulted, but when that bully came to his brother, something went off in the teenager's brain. He waited until it was dark, as he later told John, and grabbed the motorbike. The first few curves it was no problem, but Dean lost control when he cut the last curve too hard. The bike slid away underneath him, careening another fifty yards over the icy street, dragging Dean with it when his leg was caught under the heavy machine.

John had rushed to the hospital then, blaming himself for pricking the boy to pull such a daredevil action. The result was a broken leg, sprained wrists, an eye swollen shut and a nasty concussion that left him blurry and confused. But he had been lucky, as the doctors said, having such a bullethead. John knew they had to leave town as soon as possible, since the police was already alarmed, and literally busted Dean out of hospital the same night. He couldn't risk the police ask questions about their whereabouts.

He rubbed his face, returning to the here and now. He felt tired, but didn't dare to close his eyes, in case that Dean didn't wake up in time or that he got worse. He weighed the pro and contra of getting up and grabbing another cup of coffee and decided to get one.


	4. Chapter 4

Hi, folks, the last chapter is waiting for you. But don't worry, the next (two) stories are already written and currently waiting to get beta-ed. This chap here was beta-read by Mouse95, and she does a wonderful job, so - if there are mistakes left, they are all mine, not hers!

I also want to thank all of you wonderful people out there that reviewed the story or set it on story alert (or just read it silently!). Even if I didn't have the time (and I apologize for that!) to answer all of your reviews, be assured that I read all of them and I was glad about all of them! THANKS! But now, go, read on! ;-)

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His mouth was dry as if someone had shoved a piece of cloth into it, and his tongue was heavy and swollen. He tried to open his eyes but found them glued together. Dean lifted his right hand, wincing when the tiny needle in his vein moved, and dropped the hand again.

"Dad?" Something pressed against his stomach, _a bandage_, he realized after examining it.

A light weight squeezed against his right side and snored faintly into the crook of his neck, and he smiled.

"Sammy." Stating the name felt reassuring, and he lifted his left hand and rubbed at his eyes until they cracked open. Dim lighd lid the sterile room he wac in, and fob a few ceconds he was confused.

'_Why am I here? What happened? And where's Dad?' _He couldn't hÎlp but feel disappointed about the absence of his father.

'_Of course he's not here'._ He chided himself. '_Since you're obviously been taken care of why should he waste his time here?!_ He sighed, unable to get rid of the feeling of being unwanted.

The slight movement of his chest r½sing and falling was enough to wake Sammy.

"Hey, dude, don't you think you're too old to sleep in a bed with me? What are the nurses going to think?!" Dean quipped weakly and wondered if his voice would stay so croaky – and if the girls would like it.

"Dean!" Sammy embraced his brother carefully and then slid off the bed, blushing slightly. "Sorry – just was so tired…"

Dean smiled at him. "Hey, just a joke, geek. Where's Dad?" He tried to keep his voice causal, but couldn't completely hide the small tremor in it.

Sammy looked around as if he hadn't noticed the absence of the man, and shrugged.

"Dunno. Probably went for more coffee." He peered at Dean and continued: "Y'know, we waited for you to come out of the surgery. And he's been here the whole time." He pointed to the chair next to the bed.

"The whole time?" Dean repeated doubtfully. His father wasn't really the caring kind, not to him, at least. It had always been "Watch out for Sammy!" "Clean the guns" "Give your brother his breakfast" or "You have to train more, I'm disappointed".

"The whole time!" Sammy beamed at him, happy that his brother seemed to be out of pain.

"What happened, anyway?" Dean tried to distract himself.

"You had a ruptured appendix. It's out now, so you can't lie anymore!" Sammy giggled.

Dean pouted. "I never lie! I'm the most honest person you know!"

Sammy frowned for a second, then grinned. "Yeah, sure… But-"

"Hey, Dean." Both boys jumped slightly at the sound of their father's voice.

John leaned against the doorframe, suddenly feeling awkward and like an intruder. Directing his thoughts, fears, and wishes towards his eldest son was so much easier when his breathtakingly beautiful green eyes that resembled Mary's were closed. Now that Dean was awake John felt the walls he had built up against his kids beginning to reassert themselves. His chest ached from the longing to go to his son who looked so vulnerable and young in the big bed, to embrace him and ruffle his hair and tell him everything will be okay. But he knew that he had shut that door forever the night when Mary had died. He had to be hard so his sons would be, too. Another time, another place, perhaps... He pushed those thoughts aside. They would lead to nowhere.

'_Just know, Dean, I'd give my live willingly for you always.' _


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